


Heartburn Hotel

by missmollyetc



Category: Gordon Korman - Dont Care High
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At eighteen, Paul Abrams takes control of his culinary destiny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartburn Hotel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenlily/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I neither own, nor covet, Gordon Korman's characters. I just like to take them out on the occasional playdate.

It began how most nights with Sheldon ended, with a strong feeling of disaster, a visit to the bathroom and a certain amount of swearing, as if Paul's stomach was the New York Philharmonic and Sheldon its crazed German conductor. The mid-November chill crept over Paul's legs as he dipped into the case of Pepto Bismol he kept beneath his bed. The smooth plastic bottle felt good in his hand as he raised it up, and twisted off the child-proof top.

Paul tossed the cap to the floor and swigged directly from the bottle. He sighed, licking the taste of peppermint from his lips.

Rocco. It always came back to the sauce patented under the name _Rocco_, or Tammy, Salvatore, or Max. Sheldon was insane, dragging him from one barely up to code restaurant to the next in some kind of gut-wrenching food crawl. It had to stop, a boy, a man, a _Canadian-American_ could only take so much abuse, not even for Sheldon and the way his face lit up at every greasy dish.

Paul clutched his bottle of Pepto Bismol to his chest, belched up at his bedroom ceiling, and _came up with a plan._

 

***

 

His alarm screeched through the air at five-thirty sharp, and Paul very nearly gave up there and then. The lightening bug family in the building next door wasn't even up yet, and the search light they'd installed in their living room last Christmas had been his wake up call ever since.

He pushed his face into his pillow, and bunched his quilt up over his shoulders. Bed was better. Bed was warm and soft and the entire room was dark for once. It wasn't so bad, really, eating where Sheldon… His stomach gurgled meaningfully. Paul turned onto his back.

Right. He blinked his eyes open. How hard could this be?

 

***

 

The Cookbook was in the kitchen, underneath the dish towels, and on top of the cookie-cutters in the junk drawer. Paul pulled it free of the Santa jelly mold hanging off its frayed binding and set it open on the counter. The Cookbook didn't have a title—the cover had been torn off sometime before Paul had been born—but he'd grown up with it open on the counter every year, mainly for the holidays. Mom swore by it—and sometimes at it—but she beat Auntie Nancy in the elaborate meal round of family get-togethers every time.

Paul flipped to the index. He closed his eyes, raised his hand into the air, and let gravity pull it back down. His finger landed with a thwap against the paper. Paul licked his lips, and took a deep breath.

Whatever it was, it had to be better than anything New York had to offer. The Cookbook never failed.

Paul opened his eyes, and looked down at the index. His finger had landed in the 'E's towards the middle of the page, and there, partially hidden by his fingernail, he read the words, _Enchilada Lasagna_.

He flipped to page 104, and eyed the full page recipe. On the opposite side, a picture of the Enchilada Lasagna stared back at him, long and glistening in its dish, brimming with cheese and chilies and mysterious brown lumps surrounded by orange pools of grease. The front of the casserole dish holding the Enchilada Lasagna read '_¡OLE!_' in bright blue painted letters.

Huh. Sheldon might go for this after all.

 

***

 

"See? See? What did I tell you," Sheldon said, pointing up at the sign hanging over their heads.

Paul looked up, gripping the shoulder straps of his backpack tightly with both hands. He sighed.

"Yes, Sheldon," he said. "The picture's back."

Don Carey High School had come a long way since the heady days of the Otis Administration, but six months of the Morrison-led Wayne-O Revolution in the midst of the attempted La Paz Trilogy had taken its toll. Paul didn't think he'd ever truly recover from the La Paz/Eversleigh Stick for Votes scandal and its resulting ban on sugar within school grounds. On the bright side, it had gotten Feldstein out of his retirement and into the illicit candy trade. He'd even gotten himself a new chair.

"I've torn it down three times! Do they really think I won't go for a fourth?"

Sheldon's hand darted upwards, and Paul grabbed for his wrist. He hooked his fingers inside the cuff of Sheldon's jacket and yanked Sheldon's hand down.

"Are you nuts?" he asked. "Of course, you aren't going for a fourth! I don't know about you, but another school-wide assembly about destruction of school property and the importance of the rule of law is not my idea of a fun time. This is my damn locker anyhow."

Sheldon shook his wrist, twisting free, and turned around to lean against the lockers. Paul put his hand in his pants pocket, rubbing his fingers together. Above their heads, Wayne-O's enormous thumb pointed towards the ceiling.

"Trading off someone else's hard work," Sheldon grumbled. "There oughta be a law."

Paul snorted. Sheldon had washed his hands of politics—again—during the second round of the presidential talks, when Wayne-O had been late to every single debate and spoken mainly through exhibits of flash photography. He'd won in a landslide based on the photo of Mike Otis' empty locker and the slogan 'Still Wayne-O's School President.'

"This calls for a pick-me-up, Ambition," Sheldon said. He licked his lips, and cracked his knuckles. "And I know just the place, too. There's this Peruvian joint up on Sixth Avenue…"

Paul swallowed, and pressed his right hand into his stomach. "Uh, Sheldon, I think—"

"No, seriously, it's called 'Catch It, Katie' because the chef's girlfriend has to lasso customers to the seats before they try it out! It's officially the Sultriest Sauce This Side of the Pacific."

Paul blinked. "I—We're in New York, that doesn't even make _sense_."

"Who cares?" Sheldon asked. "It's the experience that's the important thing!"

He threw his arm around Paul's shoulders and dragged him against his side. Paul swallowed. Sheldon the Culinary Explorer stared past the La Paz triangle stickers still stuck against the lockers on the opposite wall, and put his hand over his heart.

"Isn't this worth a cab ride?" he asked. "Isn't this worth an entire _period_ of Chemistry in the Community?"

Paul pulled back, angling his face towards the side of Sheldon's head. "Why would it take two whole periods to eat lunch?"

As seniors, Paul and Sheldon were allowed to leave the school grounds for lunch, or rather, they were allowed to not go to homeroom during lunch and no one had caught them sneaking out the side doors to the parking lot yet.

Sheldon turned his head, and Paul blinked strands of hair out of his eyes. Their noses bumped. Close… Sheldon was very close, and solid against the side of his body. It felt...nice. Sheldon had taken his growth spurt seriously, and in every direction. Paul just seemed to get taller.

"What you think they just let anyone into Casey's Taste of Lima?" Sheldon asked. "We're gonna have to wait in line, and getting tied up takes awhile."

Peruvian bondage-themed restaurants. This was what his life had come to. Paul's stomach gurgled and turned over. He inhaled through his nose, and licked his lips. Sheldon blinked rapidly.

"I made you something," Paul said.

He felt his eyes widen as Sheldon's did, and watch Sheldon's wistful excitement over Catch It, Katie sharpen into surprise. Sheldon's hand flexed on Paul's shoulder.

"You did?" he asked. "I…"

In three years, Paul had never seen Sheldon derail so quickly. He nodded quickly.

"Yes," he said. "I did. I…I cooked. At home. You should come home with me and eat it."

"What?"

Paul shook his head. "I don't know. I'm a chef now. You're generally the one with the plans. Come home with me?"

"Oh," Sheldon said. He blinked. "Yes?"

"Great," Paul said, stepping back. His shoulders felt cold when Sheldon's arm dropped away. "Let's go."

 

***

 

They took the subway, crushed in with the housewives and the workers on their lunch breaks and the daytrippers clutching their guides to the city. All the way Sheldon was pressed up against his side, big and warm. During a curve, Paul let gravity drop his left hand from his jacket pocket and fall next to Sheldon's. Their knuckles brushed back and forth as the train rocked.

Paul glanced over his shoulder. Sheldon was staring into space again, eyes focused on the graffiti spray-painted across the ceiling. He had a pimple coming in underneath his chin, and still, at eighteen, never really needed to shave.

The train car rocked, briefly pressing Sheldon into the wall and Paul into Sheldon. They bounced off each other, and Sheldon grinned at him. Paul laughed, and their hands brushed against each other again.

A prickle of heat washed over Paul's skin. He blinked, and looked away, ducking his head.

 

***

 

Paul closed the oven door, and wiped his palms on his jeans. Behind him, he heard the scrape of the kitchen chair across the linoleum as Sheldon sat down.

"It needs to heat back up again," Paul said, turning around. "It'll be a few minutes."

Sheldon nodded, leaning forward over the kitchen table. He laced his fingers together in front of him, bopping the sides of his hands against the wood.

"So," he said.

"Yep," Paul said.

Silence stretched between them. Paul watched Sheldon bounce his hands against the table. He stuck his own hands in his pockets, and fidgeted.

Oh man, this was stupid. What was he doing, cooking? Planning? Sheldon was the planner in their duo, the one who charged ahead while Paul smoothed feathers and reassured people that Sheldon knew what he was doing, honestly. Sort of, anyway. He licked his lips and shrugged at the floor.

Paul's stomach gurgled. He glanced over and found Sheldon staring back at him, eyebrows raised. He grinned and Paul's lips twitched once, twice, and one the third twitch he found himself laughing. Sheldon's smile widened as his mouth opened, and then they were howling.

"You cooked me lunch!" Sheldon exclaimed between guffaws.

Paul stumbled forward and fell into the seat opposite him. "You give me indigestion! I have to do _something_."

Sheldon giggled, leaning back in his chair. "You and your stomach."

"You and your stupid _sauces_."

Sheldon snickered, and Paul relaxed against his chair. He stretched his legs out under the table. Sheldon's leg slid against his calf up to his knee.

"So you're a chef now," Sheldon said, biting the lower curve of his smile.

"Yeah," Paul said, shrugging. "I guess I prefer heartburn in the privacy of my own home."

Sheldon's eyebrows rose to his hairline. Paul grinned. Behind him, the timer on the oven dinged.


End file.
